


No Crying in Football

by rabbit_hearted



Category: Purple Hyacinth - Ephemerys & Sophism (Webcomic)
Genre: F/M, I think it’s the most crack-adjacent thing I’ve ever written, but I also love it a lot, does this qualify as crack??, it’s football but it’s also dirty dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:55:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27826381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabbit_hearted/pseuds/rabbit_hearted
Summary: Lauren hadn’tmeantto throw the football at the referee’s head. It’s just that his head happened to be in the vicinity of Dylan Rosenthal, who was the ball’s intended target.
Relationships: Lauren Sinclair/Kieran White
Comments: 13
Kudos: 69





	No Crying in Football

**Author's Note:**

> I blame many people for this.
> 
> I don't have an Instagram, but when I do check it, it's for the express purpose of keeping tabs on beautiful PH artwork. As soon as I laid eyes on thumbipeach's [take on Jock Lauren and Cheerleader Kieran](https://www.instagram.com/p/CH05jeFFCpS/?igshid=dzvzvmndf3ny), (Whom I believe were created by @hontueri on Insta), I laughed for about twenty minutes straight, and then I opened a new Word document and got to work on this. 
> 
> A fun little drabble I wrote to get them out of my damn head before I move onto ... very exciting things that I can't talk about yet ;) Might make this into a two-shot because it was absurdly fun to write LMAO

Lauren hadn’t _meant_ to throw the football at the referee’s head. It’s just that his head happened to be in the vicinity of Dylan Rosenthal, who was the ball’s intended target.

Truthfully, she only had herself to blame for trusting him. Rosenthal had all the makings of a promising wide receiver: He was plucky but disciplined, quick on his feet, and weighed about a hundred pounds soaking wet, which meant that he was lithe enough to navigate complex maneuvers. Coach March had worn her down enough that she agreed to let him try out, and he had ended up pleasantly surprising her enough that she kept him on as a starter.

She was _pleasantly_ surprised, up until he fumbled the world’s easiest pass at the fourth down, eliminating their chances of making it into the Division One playoffs. Now, she was just the regular kind of surprised. And Lauren hated surprises.

After the whistle blew, she stalked across the length of the field like a predator, her eyes fixed unwaveringly on his. None of her teammates dared to intercept her slow, purposeful gait. Dylan stood with his feet planted firmly in the end zone, and she had to reluctantly respect the fact that he hadn’t chosen to flee.

As she drew near, he threw his palms up, as though to deflect a blow that hadn’t yet come. “Listen, Sinclair—”

Lauren’s voice was calm, perfectly even in pitch, as though they were two people out for an evening stroll. “Do you have a concussion?”

Dylan paused, his mouth still propped open. The front of his jersey was stained with sweat and mud and what appeared to be a smear of blood after a particularly brutal game against Greychapel College.“What?"

“I asked you if you have a concussion.”

“I…” Dylan glanced around, as though searching for help. The rest of the team wisely hung some twenty yards back, mutely watching the scene unfold.

“No. I don’t.”

“How about your vision? Any impairments I should know about?”

His pale eyes blinked beneath the maroon Ardhalis University helmet. “No, my vision is fine.”

“Fascinating. And how about your hands? Any fractures?”

“No.”

“Sprains?”

“No—”

“Then _why_ ,” she snarled, “Did you fumble my pass?”

Dylan’s Adam’s apple twitched as he swallowed. Then he squared his shoulders and took a half-step forward. “You’re out of your mind, Sinclair. Your pass went way left. I’m fast, but I’m not the fucking _Flash_.”

Lauren barked a mirthless laugh and clawed her helmet off, suddenly oppressively hot under the buzzing stadium lights. Her sweaty hair tumbled out over her shoulders as she tossed it to the ground, then kicked it into the end zone for good measure. She was past the point of denying her petulance. “A _high schooler_ could have caught that pass. A _junior varsity_ high schooler.”

“ _What_?”

And that was when Lauren made the fateful decision to pluck the football out of Dylan’s hands and chuck it directly at his head. Her plan really had no express purpose other than to make him mad, and it _would_ have worked swimmingly, except that Dylan, the agile bastard, decided to duck at the last minute, which sent the football hurtling directly towards the hapless referee’s face.

“Oh, _shit_ ,” Lauren and Dylan muttered in unison. 

—

“Fractured orbital bone,” Coach March recited, his eyes fixed on the paper in his hands. “Fractured nose. Probable concussion.” He flicked his narrowed gaze back up to her face. March wasn’t an easily perturbed man, but when he was upset, it was best not to be near the blast radius. “Those are the injuries you caused, in case you were curious.”

Lauren was seated in March’s dimly-lit office, flanked on all sides by plaques, ribbons, and trophies that were shined so meticulously she could see her reflection in them. She wondered, absently, if he employed someone to do that.

Lauren sighed, sinking into her seat. “I didn’t mean for it to hit him—”

“Oh! So you just meant to assault _Rosenthal,_ then,” March quipped. “That makes everything better.”

“I wasn’t _assaulting_ him,” Lauren grumbled. “It came from a place of love.”

“Is that so?”

“He fumbled the most important pass of the season, Coach.” Lauren tossed her palms up in exasperation. “I _knew_ I shouldn’t have trusted him to be a starter.”

“You’re the captain of the team, Sinclair. You have a responsibility to be a role model to the underclassmen.” He gathered the paper in his fist. “Your little display on the field was anything but responsible.”

Lauren rolled her jaw, quiet as she took his lashing. “I’m going to apologize to Rosenthal and the referee.”

“That’s not enough.” March sighed, pulling a hand over his face. “We’ve been through this too many times.”

“Only twice this season, if we’re talking specifics—”

“That’s twice too many,” March interjected firmly. “I recruited you for this team because you’re an exceptional football player. The university gave you a full ride scholarship for that same reason — the _only woman_ they’ve ever let play on the men’s team, need I remind you. But your talent can only take you so far.”

Lauren’s brow edged into her hairline as she considered his words. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he replied slowly, “That you need to be taught a lesson.”

“What, like clean the locker rooms?”

“No.”

“Run drills with the JV team?”

“No.”

“Wash everyone’s jerseys?”

“No.”

She frowned. “What, then?”

March leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re going to fill in on the cheerleading team.”

Lauren was rather proud to admit that few things had the ability to surprise her anymore. Even Rosenthal’s little screw-up that evening hadn’t _truly_ surprised her after the initial shock, for the simple reason that she’d long ago learned to lower her expectations such that no one had the power to disappoint her.

So it’s only fitting, then, that Lauren would be struck speechless by the most batshit insane statement she’d heard in years.

“The cheerleading team lost a girl to an ankle injury. They need a stand-in for a JV game next Saturday, and I told them you’d be available.”

For a second, Lauren wondered if March was pranking her. But then, she realized with a wave of nausea, nothing he had just said had been a lie. “You can’t be serious.”

“Quite serious, in fact,” March replied dryly. “You’re going to attend their practices, and then you’re going to attend their game. And you’re going to do it with a smile on your face.”

“But—”

“No buts.” March scrawled something onto a piece of notebook paper and then slid it across his desk. “This is the cheerleading captain’s phone number. I told him to expect to hear from you to coordinate the details.”

Lauren blinked down at the number. When she didn’t respond, he added, “His name is Kieran.”

Her mouth tasted like sawdust. “I’d rather clean toilets than do this.”

“A pity, then, that the cheerleading team didn’t need a janitor.” March stood, signaling the end of the conversation. “Don’t be so judgmental, Sinclair. You might even enjoy it.”

—

**7618905477** Hey. This is Lauren Sinclair.

 **7618905477** I was told you’d be responsible for my capital punishment.

There was a brief pause, and then her phone buzzed.

**7614558766** Capital punishment is a rather dramatic way to put it. 

**7614558766** Be ready for practice at Aevasther Gym tomorrow.

 **7618905477** What time?

 **7614558766** Six thirty.

She didn’t want to ask the question that she already knew the answer to. Unfortunately, it arrived a moment later.

**7614558766** A.M.

—

If Lauren wasn’t exactly easy to get along with during normal operating hours, her mood could only be described as homicidal before seven in the morning. She tossed her duffel bag onto the athletic mat and then checked her phone display to ensure she’d gotten the practice time correct. “Where is everyone?”

Kieran White blinked up at her from the clipboard in his hands. “They’re not coming.”

She vaguely recognized Ardhalis University’s Cheer Captain from past games, but they’d never spoken. He was tall and wiry, with a mop of dark hair that curled at his nape and a perpetually impish quirk in his thick brow. Handsome, not that she was about to admit that. “What? Why?”

“I need to get you up to speed first. You’d just slow down practice with everyone else here.”

Her narrowed gaze drifted speculatively over his maroon sweatpants and white t-shirt. “I would have thought they’d have made you wear the same uniform as the girls,” she muttered.

Kieran fixed her with an unamused look. “Bit hard to throw people over my head in a skirt. And if we’re talking assumptions, _I’d_ have thought you’d have at least three of your teeth missing.”

“We wear mouth guards,” Lauren sniffed.

“You run full-speed at each other for fun. Or,” he waved his hand vaguely. “Points, or something.”

“And you toss people around for _fun_ , so I suppose we’re even.” She paused, a grimace twitching at the edges of her mouth. “You’re not going to throw me, are you?”

Kieran pulled a hand over his jaw, inspecting her. “You’d make a good flyer,” he murmured. She crossed her arms over her chest petulantly as he paced a slow circle around her, his expression thoughtful. “Small enough that the bases shouldn’t have an issue getting you up.”

“Absolutely not,” Lauren spat. “I’m not ending up with a broken ankle because of some stupid punishment.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” Kieran rolled his eyes. “It would just be one basket toss. Simple.”

“What the _hell_ is a…” She let the end of the sentence linger, kneading the bridge of her nose. “Never mind. Let’s just get this over with.”

She scowled her way through the calisthenics warm-up and the entirety of the two-mile run Kieran subjected her to, lamenting stupid Rosenthal and his good reflexes all the while. After the last lap, she collapsed backwards onto the mat, panting.

“Aren’t you a varsity football player?” Kieran drawled boredly, standing over her with his arms crossed. It was practically a crime to humanity, how good he looked after running two miles. His shirt wasn’t even damp with sweat. “Would have thought you’d do better than a ten minute mile.”

“I’m a Quarterback, not a Corner,” Lauren snapped, wiping her sweaty forehead with the back of her palm. “I’m not supposed to be fast.”

“Let’s hope that you fare better with the practice stunts, then,” he grumbled, sticking his palm out to help her up.

“Yes, _let’s_."

She stumbled through the tumbling part of the routine with relative ease, relying on her memory of her single, horrible year of gymnastics experience as a child to carry her through the footwork. It wasn’t until Kieran instructed her to try the aerial stunts that practice began devolving rapidly. 

“Hopeless,” Kieran panted. “Never in my life have I met such an uncoordinated person—”

“ _I’m_ the one who’s uncoordinated?” Lauren hissed, palming at her tender ribs. “Coming from the man who’s dropped me on my ass seven times in the past hour?”

“You don’t trust me,” Kieran snapped, pushing himself to his feet. “You’re tenser than a goddamn two by four.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one being thrown around like a sack of potatoes.”

“It’s a simple lift. One that a high schooler could do.” Lauren winced, not because the words insulted her, but because they paralleled the ones she’d used with Dylan. She was loathe to admit that the two of them had anything in common. Kieran frowned, turning away. “You should get some ice on your ankle. You landed on it hard on that last try.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Lauren grumbled petulantly, rolling up onto her knees on the mat. She watched as he sullenly packed up his belongings. “So, now what?”

“Now,” Kieran replied dryly, slinging his duffel over his shoulder. “I have to figure out how to rework the routine so that you don’t injure yourself or anyone else.”

Lauren snorted derisively. “I can do the stupid lift. I just need time.” She blamed her insistence on getting the routine correct on her competitive nature. It wasn’t that she particularly cared about cheerleading, or being a team player. She was a Division One athlete, for God’s sake. Strutting around and twirling some pom-poms couldn’t possibly be as difficult as he was making it out to be. 

Kieran’s expression grew thoughtful as he considered her words. Then, his lips curved into a cold, humorless sneer. “I see,” he murmured. “You don’t think cheerleading is a legitimate sport.”

Lauren flushed, wondering what he had seen in her face to arrive at that conclusion. “What?”

Kieran rolled his jaw, his blue eyes bright with irritation. “You heard me.” He took a step towards her, his hands buried in the pockets of his joggers. “You think this is stupid.”

“Well,” she huffed, pushing herself to her feet. She didn’t see any sense in denying the truth. “It kind of is.”

“Is that so?” Kieran replied flatly, tilting his head. “Noted.”

“Oh, come on,” Lauren groaned. “I’m not saying cheerleaders don’t work hard, it’s just … _different_.”

“Different,” Kieran intoned. He took another step toward her, now closer than comfortable. She could smell his deodorant — something spicy and man-scented that probably came in a three pack. “I was going to spare you, you know. But because you had to run your mouth, I think I’ll keep the routine.” He paused, narrowing his eyes. “You’ll be a flyer.”

“ _What_?”

“I’m swapping you with Desroses, our usual flyer. She’ll be a back spot.”

“But-” Lauren sputtered, incredulous. “You can’t just-”

Kieran cut her off with his raised palm. “I’m the captain of the team. I can do whatever I want.” He tossed her a lazy smirk before turning to leave. “If I were you, I'd start practicing.”

**Author's Note:**

> Ah yes, a pissing match between two idiots that could result in severe bodily injury. What could possibly go wrong. 
> 
> This is so weird HAHA thank you for reading it. LOVE YOU ALL
> 
> -Rabbit


End file.
